


Ever-Constant Patterns(In This Ever-Changing World)

by valiantprincex



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: But take this as you will, Gen, I don't ship them, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantprincex/pseuds/valiantprincex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What were you thinking about?” she asks, and it takes a moment (a moment too long) for you to register this, but you reply: Sacred geometry. Sarah snorts, and you laugh (an approximation of the sound). You tell your hand to move and it does, slowly and stubbornly, but it is still your own. You speak of the Golden Ratio inscribed on your skin, the ever-repeating pattern that is woven into your DNA and written in the stars. </p><p>**Some Spoilers for Season 2 Finale**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever-Constant Patterns(In This Ever-Changing World)

         “The clock ticks, tick-tick-tick-tick. No end, no beginning, a continuous steady rhythm. You breath catches in your throat: a familiar feeling. You breathe, or try too and remember a time when breathing (laughing, dancing, running, speaking) flowed as easily seamlessly and the never-ending tick-tick of the clock. It is hard, so hard now, but you try to remember the  feeling of your breath flowing freely like the ocean tide but your breath catches on jagged edges and broken glass. You realize you have forgotten the easy feeling of in-out-in-out-in-out-tick-tick-tick. The cannula tubes tickle your nose, and they help but do not remove the serpent that has constricted itself around your lungs and throat.

          Hard luck, an unfortunate turn of fate that your body’s defense has become it’s executioner. The tumors started in your womb, the origin (well no, not yours, but the place you would have been created given the chance), and are spreading like wildfire. Yet only in the heat of the inferno can new trees be born. You think of cycles, of birth and death and tick-tick-tick, of patterns and ratios and mirrors, and how they repeat themselves. You think of life, or the origin of it, how you are made of starstuff put on this planet by a falling rock from the depths of space. You think of conception, development, evolution. How life cannot, should not be created from non-life and yet eons ago it sprung from nothing on a planet akin to the fires of hell, how like the forest new life can only come to be after catastrophe. How you were made from the universe and yet also seek to understand it, you wonder at humankind’s ability to track repeating patterns and take them, remake them, weave them into your history. How great architects in their craft looked not to the creations of man but to nature. From the smallest structures to the spiraling galaxies and in those stars and structures they saw patterns. Constants in this ever-changing world, patterns that have seen civilizations and species rise and fall.

          You feel Sarah shift next to you. “Hey”, the sigh escapes you, the cough buried underneath medicine and exhaustion and _willpower._

          “What were you thinking about?” she asks, and it takes a moment (a moment too long) for you to register this, but you reply: Sacred geometry. Sarah snorts, and you laugh (an approximation of the sound). You tell your hand to move and it does, slowly and stubbornly, but it is still your own. You speak of the Golden Ratio inscribed on your skin, the ever-repeating pattern that is woven into your DNA and written in the stars. You remember this, this wonder and delight that used to fill you with each intake of oxygen. The feeling remains, but like all feeling it has changed with time. As a child you thought yourself immortal as the stars in the galaxy, with this endless universe _waiting_ , waiting just for you. Now you still long for knowledge, but this need has become more of a burden than a gift (but then again, now everything is hard, even the unsteady rise and fall of your chest). Now this wonder has turned against you, your biology had become your enemy.

          “We’re all so different”, Sarah marvels. Nature and Nurture. You are the same, and yet the world has taken each of you and molded and pushed and made you into your own, each a separate spiraling galaxy. You consider yourself, your endless search for knowledge, your endless wonder at the spiral of the universe. You think of Allison, her drive and ambition, of Beth and her fierce loyalty, of  Rachel and Helena, and of Sarah. “You’re the Wild Type”, you say, “you propagate against all odds.” Sarah is restless, but that has kept her alive.

          Sarah pauses, and she says (again), “I can’t do this without you”. This time there is finality, it settles in your bones and the pit of your stomach. It constricts in your rib cage and itches at the tips of your fingers. You try to assure her, for she will live on (she will have to). She told you of Ethan’s death, of Rachel Duncan’s rage that put the seal of your fate. You accept this death, (it wasn't her fault) and again you think of the past. You remember being young (as you are still) running, laughing, dancing through the streets and alleyways of San Francisco, the halls of Berkeley; believing that somehow you will live forever because all this wonder could not have been created had it not meant to be explored. But you reminisce with resignation, not denial, hope, fear.

          And you think of Death: Oblivion. Sleep tugs at you like a gentle tide but you resist. Why sleep, when your days are numbered? When you know you have weeks, days, seconds (tick-tick-tick-tick) left why lose time you will never get back? Why release yourself to oblivion when soon there will be nothing else? But oh, what a pleasant release it is. The body always wins, in the end. With the release go the worries, the pain. Nightmares come, yes, but it is hard to be afraid when you are dying. _“I will never leave you”,_ whispers Delphine, and you are not afraid. In dreams you can breathe easy as exhaustion overtakes your consciousness and pulls you slowly, gently into the tide.

          In-out-in-out-in-out-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. Your lungs(your broken poisoned lungs) somehow marching on despite it all; in your release they feel less like a pain and more like a sunset. The signal of the end, but no less beautiful than the day.

\-- 

          Kira wakes you, the tide of sleep abated, “Can you read me a story?” You do and it is almost disquieting, this peace you feel(almost).

  
          “Can you read another?” And there, among the twisted fabrications of Dr. Moreau lies something that dares to whisper  _hope._

**Author's Note:**

> Sacred Geometry is super trippy, hope I conveyed the idea


End file.
